13
I stood arm-in-arm with Jason, watching the setting sun plunge into the sea, the breeze cool off the water and the sand warm under my feet. Jason and I had come to the north Ciprias coast to visit the Thompsons—and to escape the spotlight.
Four days had passed since the labgrown protest and the Zob Rombie killings. The galactic press was just picking up the story. The implications extended far beyond Catalonia and were rippling through the galaxy. I'd called into question the basis of gladborn identity, and most weren't happy about it. I was being painted as a traitor and revolutionary.
When Father had gotten home on the evening of my speech, he and I had argued. I'd bitterly accused him of endangering labgrown by not declaring an emergency, and he'd just as bitterly accused me of in
